


Insomnia

by AtropaAzraelle (Polyoxyethylene)



Series: Of Walls and Nerds [29]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Action, M/M, return to Insomnia, sap and romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-07
Updated: 2018-08-30
Packaged: 2019-06-23 08:50:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15602742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Polyoxyethylene/pseuds/AtropaAzraelle
Summary: In his search for answers and a way to avoid Noct's fate, Ignis seeks Aranea's help once more. This time, it's to return to Insomnia and find what lies hidden in the royal archives.But someone's waiting for them.





	1. Request

**Author's Note:**

> I've had a rough time lately, as many of you know, and I want to thank everyone that has offered their support and shoulder to cry on. The outpouring of affection I've received has been overwhelming and it's really helped through some of the darker moments. I can never thank any of you enough.
> 
> So I'm back to writing. This is a multi-chapter. Following this chapter will be a separate story that occupies the time between chapters one and two here. As all of them are written and I just need to polish the third chapter, I'll be posting one per week.
> 
> Thank you again, thank you even more for sticking around to continue reading, and I hope you enjoy.

“So,” she said, “what's so urgent?”

Ignis listened to the sound of Aranea's heels clicking against the floor. He'd learned to identify everyone's gait by now. Gladio's steps were measured and heavy, his large feet hitting the floor with steady thuds, spaced far enough apart for his long stride, and loud enough to belie his size. Prompto's steps were quicker, and lighter, but carried more confidence now than they once had.

Cor strode as if he was accustomed to the world moving out of his way, and with a surety that suggested he would cut through anything that didn't. Aranea walked similarly; her heels gave her footfalls more impact than her lithe frame could alone.

Ignis listened. Aranea was unaccompanied, and he couldn't hear anyone lurking in doorways where they might inconveniently overhear. “I have another location I need to search,” he said.

There was the sound of a plastic chair scraping across the floor. Ignis pushed his tape recorder aside. Talcott, or Cor, or Prompto read reports for him, and Ignis in his turn would dictate his own reports back onto the tape. At night he brought the recorder home with him, and on the nights that Gladio couldn't call, which were more often than not, he put in a pair of headphones and listened to the tape Gladio had left for him just before he'd departed for Meldacio. 

Gladio’s words on that tape made his heart skitter and jump. He’d listened to it often enough now that he could recite it by heart, knew every place that Gladio had paused for breath, every chuckle that came from Gladio’s throat at the memories.

“Iggy,” it began, Gladio’s voice low and gentle into his ear. “I want you to listen to this when times are tough. You overthink shit, you always have. I love you, and nothing’s going to change that. I’m never going to move past you. I’m gonna be right here, by your side, going at your pace every step. I’ll always wait for you.

“Remember when we first started out? I’d been flirting my ass off and you didn’t seem to notice. You were such a bossy, haughty little ass, still are, but there was a fire there. You were quick, and smart, and kept me on my toes. All those times we sparred, I’d lose the shirt just to see if I’d get a reaction, and never did. But I could tell you loved it when you got me on my ass, and I wasn’t gonna pretend I didn’t like pinning you when we did hand to hand.

“I suppose I can admit now that I pretended I ached more than I really did because I didn’t want you to stop the massages. I wanted your hands on me, even if you didn’t want mine on you, but I also wanted to spend time with you. You were sharp, and cute. Even if you weren’t into me, I liked being around you.

“I still do, Iggy. Even from the start, it’s always been about who you are, for me. That wit, the look on your face when you make a terrible pun, the way you fuss about making dinner. That’s what I love about you. That’s what I miss, and I’m gonna keep missing until this shit’s over. I love you, and I’ve had to fight scarier battles than this to be able to say that. I’m not gonna give up now.”

They'd been apart for four months now, and every day had felt like an eternity. He longed for the warmth and safety of Gladio's arms, but instead he had to make do with his voice repeating those same words over and again, making those same assurances, and the worn shirt that had lost its scent much too quickly.

“After that last place, it should be me calling in the favours,” Aranea said.

Ignis smiled. He could hear the sneer in Aranea’s tone. He hadn't been able to see what they were surrounded by when they’d visited Pitioss ruins in the base of Ravotogh. The ruins were half a rumour, as were most of the lost tombs of the ancient Kings of Lucis. It had been unlike the tombs, however. Aranea had described the architecture and diagrams on the wall, and taken pictures for Talcott to compare, but he'd felt the narrowness of the walkways, and the pull of gaping chasms. There were rooms that had thrown his sense of balance and position off completely, although Aranea assured him it would have been worse if he could see, and the atmosphere had permeated his lungs and filled his chest with dread and foreboding. Judging by Aranea's litany of curses as they’d left, she had felt much the same way. “The ancient civilisation of Solheim owes us both an apology,” he said.

“So long as you got something useful out of it,” Aranea said, “because you'd have to pay me a lot to go back, and gil's worthless these days.”

“Fortunately it isn't there I need to go,” Ignis said, offering a faint smile in Aranea's direction. He'd liked Aranea since the second time they'd met. The first time they had met, she’d attempted to kill Noct, although Ignis would be pushed to call it a half hearted attempt at best. Their second encounter had been on better terms while Gladio had been off proving to himself that he had what it took to fulfil his duty. He’d taken a liking to her, then, and her brusque efficiency and self assured competency.

He'd liked her even more when they'd met again in the shadows of the ruined Fenestala Manor. She was the only person, Gladio and himself included, who had reacted to the news he was blind with empathy, but not sympathy. Aranea never felt sorry for him, and never questioned the wisdom of his pressing on with the others. Since returning to Lestallum she'd been an invaluable guide, picking up Gladio's mantra and pushing him to find out what he _could_ do, instead of fixating on what he could not.

“Yeah?” she asked, and Ignis could hear the light scepticism in her tone. “So where is it this time? The bottom of Costlemark? The heart of Gralea?”

Ignis bowed his head and smiled despite himself. Ignis had, in the opinions of some, a long list of terrible holiday destinations on his post-apocalyptic bucket list. Costlemark, ironically enough, was one of the destinations he had yet to investigate, saving that particular daemon pit for when a few others had time to spare. “I'm more interested in Kingdoms than Empires,” he said, lifting his head to turn his face to Aranea again. “I want you to take me to Insomnia.”

His statement was met with silence. He couldn't even hear Aranea's breath, and he mentally counted the seconds until she exhaled, slowly, through her mouth. “I think I'd prefer Costlemark,” she said, eventually.

“I need to get inside the Citadel's archives,” Ignis said, keeping his voice low in case anyone approached the makeshift office in the Glaive headquarters. There were a number of people that would try and stop him from going, not least Cor, and Gladio, should they get wind.

He heard Aranea's chair shuffle a few degrees as she shifted her weight in it. When she spoke again, her voice came from nearer than it had been, and Ignis imagined her leaning in. “I thought you were looking for the origin of the scourge? Are you telling me Lucis knew about it all along?”

“No,” Ignis answered. Did he believe that His Majesty would have allowed his son's love to trail the world healing the sick if he had information that could solve the problem entirely at his disposal? No. But was it possible that Insomnia held a missing piece of the puzzle scattered across so much history and geography? “At least I don't believe so, but thus far every new piece of information relates back to the prophecy. I need that prophecy.”

“Ignis,” Aranea said, “everyone knows the prophecy.”

Ignis gave a sigh. “O'er rotted soil, under blighted sky, a dread plague the wicked hath wrought,” he intoned. The wicked was, without question, Ardyn, although in the past it had been assumed to be the evils of men. Rotted soil and blighted sky, of course, described their current situation. “In the light of the Gods, sword-sworn at his side, 'gainst the dark, the King's battle is fought.” In the light of the Gods became obvious; Noct had gained the blessings of four of the six Astrals. Sword-sworn, too, referred to themselves as Noct's retinue. That line was why there had been the line of Shields, continued even into now, so that when the Chosen King came, he would have at least one sworn ally. “From the heavens high, to the blessed below, shines the beam of a peace long besought. Long live thy line, and this stone divine, for the night when all comes to naught.” Ignis nodded, “we all know _that_ part,” he said. It was printed in every copy of the Cosmogony from Insomnia to Gralea, after all. “I believe there may be more.”

Aranea sniffed, but when she spoke, Ignis could hear the smile lacing her question. “So you think Insomnia's government was actually good at keeping secrets, compared to every other government in history?”

Ignis allowed himself a laugh. “Perhaps not the government,” he admitted. Political scandal was all too easy to find with the simplest of searches. The problem with governments was that they relied upon multiple people knowing about things, which meant that the chances of such things coming out increased a hundredfold for every other person that knew. “The royal family, however, have historically been very good at keeping facts close to their chest even when future generations might need that information.”

There was rampant amusement in Aranea's tone when she said, “Are you talking smack about the royals?”

“Not at all,” Ignis replied, “I'm simply acutely aware that this is the same group of, if you'll pardon the phrase, _absolute bastards_ that decided to compete with each other to determine who could have their tomb located in the most inconvenient place possible, while fully aware that their descendants would need to visit those tombs.” He had such fond memories of accidentally stumbling across the Tomb of the Fierce while escaping a very angry Zu near the top of an active volcano. Truly, it had been one for the photographic record.

Aranea laughed, and Ignis softened, his shoulders slumping. “There's a picture hanging in the Citadel, relating to the prophecy. It was commissioned a couple of centuries ago, but some of the details are,” he paused, the conversation he'd had with Prompto back in Gralea returning to him, “uncanny. I believe there's a more detailed version of the prophecy locked away in the histories.”

There was the sound of Aranea's heels shifting on the floor, and the creak of leather as she moved. “So you want to go all the way to the daemon pit that Insomnia has become based on a hunch about a painting?”

It was madness, when it was phrased that way. This whole search was; a blind man scouring the most dangerous places in Lucis, searching for a way to defy the very prophecy that was giving the world the hope to go on. “In essence, yes,” he answered.

Aranea sighed. “Can I ask you something?” she asked, after quiet had descended over them both once more.

“Of course,” Ignis replied, expecting her to ask what he was really looking for, what could be worth so much that Ignis would risk everything to gain it.

Instead Aranea asked, “Is this about you and Gladio?”

Ignis felt his insides shrink away from his skin, the hair on his body prickling all over. No one had brought up their separation in over a month. After they'd put together this act there had been questions, but shock had turned to polite inquiry, and then to silence. Ignis had always given them the same answer, and he knew Gladio had done the same.

Hearing it brought up again now was like a jet of cold water down his spine. “What?”

“He's been in Meldacio for the past three months pining for you,” Aranea said, “and you've been here doing the same. Now you're asking me to take you on a suicide mission--”

“It's not,” Ignis said, firmly, quickly. “It's not about Gladio.”

“Really?” she asked. “Because going to Insomnia sounds pretty crazy.”

“I'm positive,” Ignis answered, shortly. “Are you willing to take me, or not?”

Aranea's huffed breath was exasperated, as was the seconds of silence that followed it. “I'll take you,” she agreed, with obvious reluctance. “So long as this isn't some stupid attempt to throw yourself into a job and forget about him.”

Ignis felt his throat drying out. He did desperately want to forget the pain of being apart from Gladio every single day, but nothing would work. Gladio was always there, an ache in his heart that was constant reassurance that he still loved him. Yet he couldn't honestly say that it wasn't a contributing factor; he needed to find the answers, not just to save Noct, but also to bring about the safety in which he could return to Gladio.

“Cor's worried about you, both of you,” Aranea said, a little more softly. “He's not the only one.”

Ignis forced himself to swallow, wetting his dry mouth. “I'm not undertaking a suicide mission because I'm not with him,” he explained, the words coming slowly as he thought each of them over. “It's not that I don't have anything to return to, or that I don’t expect to return. Until Noct returns safely we will both have a reason to survive. I’m no longer with Gladio because I can't walk away from him to do something like this knowing there is a chance I might not return, but I’m not undertaking anything with the intention of failing.”

“Okay,” Aranea said, after a moment. He heard her leather outfit shift again. “All right, I'll take you.”

“Thank you,” Ignis said.

“I've got some deliveries to make first,” she said. “It'll take me a few weeks, but when I'm done, I'll give you a call.” Ignis gave a nod, biting at the inside of his bottom lip as he did. “You know Insomnia's a ruin, right?” Aranea asked.

Ignis frowned. They'd never returned to it, never been able to while he had sight, but he remembered standing at the overlook, watching the smoke palls rise from the city he'd called home while the radio informed them all of His Majesty's death, and of Noct and Lady Lunafreya's supposed passing. Noct's grief had been palpable, pouring on them all like rain. Gladio, like himself, had locked his tears away, sharing them in private only when they knew it was safe to do so.

In his memory, Insomnia would always stand the proud city of glittering lights in the darkness. It would always throng with people among its towers of plate glass and steel. He'd never seen which parts had burned, which parts had fallen. He never would.

“I know,” he said, softly.

“It's not going to be a happy homecoming,” Aranea pointed out.

Ignis turned his head, giving Aranea a wry smile. “Fortunately, I won't have to see my home city in ruins.”

There was a puff of ironic laughter. “So long as you know what you're getting into,” she said.

“I do,” Ignis assured her, quietly. “I always have.”


	2. Return

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ignis and Aranea return to Insomnia, and find evidence of the battle that was fought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This takes place after Respite. You don't need to have read that to follow this chapter.

The metal floor of Aranea's drop ship reverberated with the engine in a way that was becoming familiar. The steady whine of the magitek engine was dulled from the inside, but it was still present at the periphery of his hearing. The metal interior of the ship amplified every noise that came from inside it, so it sounded like there was an army, and not just the two of them.

Aranea had called him as promised a few weeks after their meeting, a few days after Gladio had returned, and left once more. The few glorious days where they'd been able to snatch whole hours together had passed all too quickly. When Iris was at work, Ignis had made the excuse of working from their apartment so he could meet with Gladio and have lunch with him, or he told Iris he was going out to train early and took breakfast with him instead. The simple domesticity of spending time together, sharing a meal, had, at least for an hour each day, brushed away some of the difficulties of being apart. It wasn't the same as sleeping in Gladio's arms at night, but it was so much of what Ignis had missed.

Gladio had departed once more for Longwythe a week before the call from Aranea. When he'd left, Ignis had grieved their parting all over again. It had been the closest to normalcy Ignis had felt in years. No one had questioned that they were both scarce sometimes; it was taken for granted that they were avoiding each other. They hadn't dared push to spend more than a couple of beautiful hours together just in case someone came looking for them. 

For the first time since their supposed split Ignis had gone down to wish Gladio safe travels. It had been hard to say goodbye to Gladio with onlookers watching their every movement together. Ignis had taken care to arrive just before the truck was set to depart. There were a few family members wishing farewell to their hunter kin, and Cor and Iris were there to wave Gladio off. Ignis could feel their eyes on him as he walked up, stick in hand.

“Iggy.” Gladio's voice had been thick with restrained emotion, and Ignis had forced himself to refrain from leaping forward and wrapping his arms around Gladio the way he dearly wished to.

He'd nodded instead. “You're going to Longwythe?” he'd asked, struggling to find something to say that he could say in front of Iris and Cor. His tender farewells had been made in their apartment, with hands and lips and twined limbs.

“Yeah,” Gladio replied. Tension radiated from him. Doubtless the others could feel it too.

“Stay safe,” Ignis said, and then swallowed. “Call me when you get there?”

“Yeah?” Gladio's answer had the tone of a question. As if he was checking that he had permission to make the call.

“Yes,” Ignis confirmed, and then offered out his hand. Gladio had taken it, hesitantly at first, but then his grip had become sure and warm, and Ignis hadn't wished for him to let go after the brief shake.

“I will,” Gladio said. It meant that they wouldn't need to wait until the early morning to contact each other, or for Ignis to signal to Gladio that the coast was clear; Gladio would be able to call whenever he could get through. They'd be able hear each other's voice whenever they liked, provided the signals were sufficient.

Ignis had ached to reach out, to bring Gladio into his arms and kiss him farewell. Letting Gladio go with a mere handshake and promise that he could call felt painfully impersonal, even though Gladio knew how he felt, and why he couldn't say it. He'd listened to the truck's doors shut, and the engine fire up with a lump in his throat that hadn't dissipated when he'd heard Iris step up to his side. “Thanks, Ignis,” she said gently. “That meant a lot to him.”

He'd squeezed the top of his cane as he'd fought the surge of emotion in his chest back down. “I miss him too.”

It had been an anxious couple of days before Gladio had called. Prompto had yet to return from Hammerhead, but Iris had been busily helping Ignis prepare dinner when the phone had rung. Ignis's hands were covered in chickatrice juices, the butterflied breasts spread and awaiting what meagre seasoning they had, so it had been Iris that had fished his phone out of his jacket pocket.

Ignis's heart had leapt, but the instinct to cover his joy led to hesitance. Instinctively, even though he couldn't see, he turned his head to look down at his sticky hands. “Answer it,” he said, as the phone trilled insistently. “I'll just wash my hands.”

He found the sink and dipped his hands in the sudsy water as he listened to Iris's half of the conversation. “Gladdy! I'm fine, Iggy's just washing up. You got to Longwythe okay?” There was a pause, and Ignis could hear the low rumble of Gladio's voice over the phone as he talked, too indistinct for Ignis to make out the words. “Oh man,” Iris replied, the energy draining from her. “I guess you're gonna be there a while, huh?”

“What is it?” Ignis asked, drying his hands on his apron.

“Daemon nests are popping up faster than they can clear them in Longwythe,” Iris replied, quietly. Gladio's voice interrupted her, and she answered, “Yeah, he's here. Hold on.”

Ignis held his hand out, and felt Iris place his phone in his palm. He brought it up to his ear, reminding himself to keep his voice in check. “Gladio?”

“Hey, Iggy.” Gladio's voice was a balm for the soul, soothing over Ignis's frayed insides. Ignis took three steps forward, one to the left, and turned before he settled himself onto the arm of the sofa.

“Is it true?” he asked. The threat to Longwythe, and everyone there, sat heavily in Ignis's stomach.

“Yeah,” Gladio answered. “Dave thinks they're satellite nests. If we find the main one, we might be able to root them out. We could use every good pair of hands,” Gladio told him, “if you could spare yourself?”

Ignis wished he could say yes. He wished he could journey out there, now, drop dinner, and any plans of going to Insomnia, so that he could rush out to join Gladio in Longwythe and assure himself of Gladio's safety. “I have work to do here,” he said, wishing that was a lie, “but as soon as I can,” he added, “yes, I'll come and help.”

“I'm heading out tomorrow,” Gladio said, “but I'll call you when I get back, let you both know I'm safe.”

Ignis nodded. The idea of Gladio strolling out into danger made his heart beat in his throat. He'd done it a dozen times over already, but each time set Ignis's nerves on edge, and this, finding a daemon nest that was spawning others, one that would inevitably contain worse than the usual grab bag of daemon types, made Ignis's stomach turn inside out. “Please do,” he said softly.

The conversation had ended all too quickly, and it had soured the mood in the apartment. When Ignis sat down with Iris to eat, the food didn't register on his palate, and the conversation was subdued as they both skirted around the subject of Longwythe.

That night, once he was certain Iris was asleep, he'd brought his phone out, settling himself on the edge of the bed to record a message for Gladio.

“Gladio,” he began, pouring affection into the syllables, “you've been my other half for some years now, and it's been these last months that have really made it clear what that means. A part of me feels as if it's missing without you.” The truth of it ached, but Ignis pressed on. There were some things he'd never said enough, and that he needed Gladio to hear. 

“I fell in love with you long before I could bring myself to say it,” he admitted, “before, perhaps, I allowed myself to accept it. I was attracted to you for your smile, your confidence, your muscles, yes...” He smiled, remembering the way Gladio had always been confident in Ignis's attraction to him physically, and the way he'd use it to try and wind Ignis up and get him to admit it. “But also for the way you lost yourself in a book that made me wish I could get lost there with you. I was drawn to your quietude, and your energy, your thoughtfulness, and your strength. You're my equal,” he said, “and my opposite. You balance me in all the areas where I'm deficient, and I've grown so used to having you by my side that being without you now is worse than losing my sight.” 

He took a shaky breath, and wetted his aching throat before he continued. “I feel blinded anew, lost, trying to navigate without a vital sense I never expected to go without. I can get by, but it's not the same. I miss you.”

He sighed, trying to think of something happier to tell Gladio about. Something to remind them both of why they were putting themselves through this. “I can't pinpoint the second I fell in love with you,” he added. “I don't think there was one. It happened by degrees; my heart fled to you piece by piece.” He smiled as a memory returned to him, “I can pinpoint the day I gave up trying to deny it. You were twenty. Before you all but moved in with me, you'd taken to living in the Citadel apartment instead of your family home, and you came down with a summer cold.” Ignis couldn't help but grin as he recounted the tale. “You sent me a message asking if I had any soup,” he reminded him, “and when I tried to come in you told me I was forbidden from crossing the threshold because if I caught your cold, you'd feel worse.” He laughed, imagining Gladio's face at the reminder. He'd been so sincere at the time, miserable and snuffling, his voice thick with sickness, his nose raw, his eyes puffy.

Ignis had left, but then, “I came back an hour later with honey and lemons for your throat, a soothing balm for your raw nose, and chicken-flavoured cup noodles. You tried to prevent me entering,” he remembered, “but you weren't in a fit state to win an argument with me.” Gladio never had been, really, and Ignis had shifted gears from caring to carer. “I made you take a hot bath, so the steam could clear your sinuses, while I mixed some honey and lemon with a snifter of whisky and hot water.” It was an old remedy, and maybe he'd added a little more whisky than strictly necessary, but it had helped. “I made you the cup noodles, and gave you strict instructions to add some menthol to a bowl of hot water and inhale the steam before you went to bed.”

Ignis paused, lost in the memory. “The way you looked at me as I was leaving,” he said softly, “I felt my heart melt. You didn't want to kiss me,” he said, “and I didn't care. I caught your cold that day, and it was worth it.” He swallowed, his throat heavy and aching again. “You will always be worth it,” he said. “Whatever trials lie ahead of us, however long it may take, if I can hear your voice again, if I can feel you smile against my lips, it will be worth it.” He had to hold on to that. They both did.

“When this is over,” he said, “when this is all over, Gladiolus Amicitia, we will finally be together the way we've wanted for so many years. So many obstacles have strewn our path, circumstance and duty among them, but we will clear them, as we always have. We will navigate this path together, and in the end I will let nothing stand in my way. I promise. My heart is yours, no matter how far away you may be. You carry it with you, always, as I carry yours.”

He fought against the crack that threatened his voice. “I love you, Gladio. No matter what happens, never doubt that.”

He'd ended the recording and sent the message before he could talk himself out of it, pressing his lips to his phone and wishing the kiss would transmit along with the audio file.

He hadn’t heard from Gladio since, and that fact lay like a lead weight in his stomach every time he thought of him. When Aranea had finally called, Ignis had considered putting the journey to Insomnia off so that he could make his way to Longwythe. All he had was secondhand reports that Gladio was still safe, camped at this haven or that.

“There she is.” Aranea's voice cut across Ignis's thoughts and he lifted his head, yanked back to the here and now.

“How does it look?” he asked, unable to resist. In his mind, Insomnia glittered like a Friday night, the eternal lights of the streets and buildings blotting out the stars. She was a wilderness of crystalline spires, a forest of glass and steel, crowded with voices, and pulsing with life.

“Bad,” Aranea answered. She'd never been one to mince her words, but Ignis still wondered if she was simplifying things to spare his feelings. “They went right for the jugular.”

“The Citadel,” Ignis said. It was where, had he been directing the empire’s attack, he'd have focused the military might. Aim for the central nervous system. The Citadel was the hub of Insomnia's government, so crippling it, killing as many of those within as you could, would effectively hobble the city, allowing for a smoother takeover.

“It's still standing, though,” Aranea said, not bothering to confirm or deny Ignis's assumption. She gave an irritated grunt. “There's too much rubble to land.”

Ignis frowned. They wanted to spend as little time walking the city's streets as possible. Expeditions from Hammerhead into the city had suffered high mortalities, and extremely low success rates. What supplies they'd managed to liberate from the walled confines had been accessed via smash and grab forays that had suffered too many casualties to repeat. Insomnia had become a daemon pit, as infested as the depths of Costlemark.

“There is parkland to the east of the Citadel,” he said quietly. “You may find open space there.”

He remembered those times in his youth he'd followed Noct out from the safety of the Citadel's confines. Noct had said he wanted to see the stars for real, not just in the pages of Ignis's book, and Ignis... He hadn't wanted to get in trouble, but he'd wished to see the constellations almost as dearly as Noct had. He never would have gone on those late night excursions if it hadn't been Noct's wish, and they'd never been able to see anything, anyway, only the brightest stars were ever visible in Insomnia's sky, but for all the trouble they'd been in when they'd returned, Ignis had never regretted the attempt.

They'd been to that park more than once, late at night, sometimes in the rain. Ignis could probably find his way back into the Citadel from there even now. Assuming the route hadn't been destroyed or blocked.

“Not a bad call,” Aranea said approvingly. Ignis felt the ship bank as it turned. “Should be enough space to set her down.”

Ignis said nothing, tightening his grip on his cane as he listened to the engine's drone change with the slowing of the ship. The descent was steady, like being in a well-maintained elevator, but there was a jolt as the ship touched down and something shifted underneath them. “What was that?”

“A tree,” came the answer. “It looks like we weren't the first to put something here. They've been snapped like twigs.”

Ignis's chest tightened and he forced himself to take a breath. The damage had likely been done in the attack on the city. The reality of it was almost too much to bear. “An airship or a daemon,” he agreed. Ultima Weapon had been the name in the dossier for the daemon deployed against Insomnia. They'd brought the information back with them from Gralea, and when they'd handed it over it had been the first time he'd ever heard Cor swear.

He'd seen it. Cor had followed his last orders from Gladio's father and protected the citizens, shepherding them out to safety, and then he'd tried to head back to the Citadel, back to his King, and his friend. He'd seen the daemon attacking the city, but he'd thought it was due to the collapse of the Wall that it had got inside.

The Empire had planned more thoroughly than they'd ever realised, and where had it got them? Now they stood, as ruined as Lucis, their Emperor as dead as his Majesty, their capital as daemon-infested as Insomnia.

Ignis brought his stick as he left the airship. There would be too much rubble around for him to walk with confidence without it here. Lestallum had become a second home, and he'd been learning to navigate around the city, learning to fight in training and in battle without relying on the stick to tell him where things were, but here it was too much of a risk. He loathed requiring the crutch, but better to have the stick than to fall on his face or step into a sinkhole.

His footsteps echoed on the metal as he disembarked. The ground beneath his feet was hard, dry, and slightly uneven, and the leather satchel he’d brought to make carrying records out easier swung, an unfamiliar weight at his hip. “What do you see?” he asked, trying to orient himself.

He waited as Aranea looked around. “The Citadel's at two o'clock,” she said, “and it looks like everyone left the lights on when they ran.” There was the scuff of a boot against dry dirt, and when Aranea spoke again her voice was aimed in a different direction. “The street lights are all on still.”

The lights being on made sense if people had been trying to protect themselves from daemons. Insomnia had never seen them before, and they'd have entered into the city quickly with the destruction of the wall. Everyone knew that daemons were kept away by light, but what they didn't know was that it needed to be very bright light, or it only served as a beacon to them, drawing them in. The street lights would be the same, the roads would likely be infested. “Stay within the park and head for the Citadel,” Ignis said. “There are maintenance tunnels surrounding it; they will be our easiest way in.”

“Broke into the place a lot, did you?” Aranea asked, turning back towards Ignis. The sound of her voice became clearer and more direct as she turned.

“Less often than I broke out,” Ignis admitted, wearing a fond smile at the memory.

Aranea laughed. “Never took you for a rebel.”

Ignis laughed himself, and swept his stick across the ground ahead of himself before he began to walk. “Never judge a book by its cover,” he reminded her. The ground crunched slightly under his feet as he moved, and he could hear Aranea's footsteps close behind. “I made many illicit forays beyond the safety of the Citadel as a child.”

He listened as he talked. He could hear his own breath, the crisp ground beneath his feet and Aranea's, her breathing nearby. He could even, if he listened carefully enough, hear the faint ping of the magitek engine cooling down behind them as they moved away from the ship.

“Do you see any daemons?” he asked, turning his head to try and hone in on sounds coming from further afield.

It took Aranea a moment to reply, and when she did it was wary. “No.”

Ignis murmured unhappily. “And yet the sheer number of daemons is reportedly keeping the hunters at bay,” he muttered.

Aranea understood his concern. “So either the hunters are lying,” she began.

“Or the daemons are at the edges of the city, keeping us from entering,” Ignis finished, agreeing. It was concerning; it suggested too much conscious thought behind the behaviour.

Aranea gave an unhappy hum. “Let's avoid taking the front door,” she said.

“Indeed.” They hadn't planned to take it anyway; wide open spaces were good places to be ambushed by daemons, but their absence where they were expected sent a warning thrill down Ignis's spine.

The city smelled dead as they made their way through the park. It smelled as Gralea had; absent were the notes of engines and people that made up the bulk of a living city's scent. Lestallum now smelled of sweat, and fear, and cooking food, hot pavement, and worn brick. Insomnia's scent was dry, dusty, with the faint tinge of brimstone hanging in the still air.

Even the park had no smell anymore. The dead leaves and dry grass under Ignis's feet must have been that way for so long that they no longer gave off the sweet odour of nature. Grass became tarmac underfoot as Aranea hurried Ignis across a road, and then it was down to parched soil and dead grass again as she directed them both towards a maintenance bunker.

“You really used to sneak out this way?” Aranea asked, as her boots hit concrete. Ignis found the doorway's edges with his stick as he followed her in.

“Noct did,” he confirmed. “I followed.”

“That sounds more like it.”

“We learned most of the hidden routes around the Citadel together,” Ignis replied with a smile. Journeys up to the roof were dangerous, but Ignis had always preferred those to Noct's ventures beyond the Citadel's confines. “I never expected it to be useful,” he admitted. He found the edges of some piping with his stick, the hollow metallic tap reverberating loudly in the quiet. “Here,” he said. “These pipes are part of the irrigation system that keeps the royal gardens watered. There should be a door,” he said, bringing up the memory of these maintenance channels. “It'll be locked, but I expect we're far too old now to be crawling through vents.”

His answer was the sound of something being dragged across dry concrete. It moved, stopped, and then Aranea took four steps, turned, and then it moved again, with a small grunt of effort from her. Her hands clapped together as she brushed them off. “There's your door,” she said. “I don't suppose you have a key, too?”

“Unfortunately not,” Ignis answered with a rueful smile. “May I?”

He heard Aranea step back, and then her hand fell to his arm as she guided him around whatever it was she'd pushed out of the way, old crates of plants for the park's flowerbeds, perhaps, or boxes of long useless fertiliser. He found the door with his hand, running his fingers along the seam. The door was made of metal; they wouldn't be able to burn their way through, but....

“Stand clear,” he advised.

He settled his stick against the wall as he listened to Aranea retreat to the bunker's entrance. Then he drew out one of Noct's magical grenades. The chill energy of it tickled at his gloved fingers, familiar and comforting; a blizzard spell. He retreated a few careful steps, keeping the door in front of himself, and then he threw it in an explosion of ice shards, hearing the crystalline tinkle of the spell freezing all around him. The wind it created froze the air in his lungs, the sharp drop in temperature pinched at his nose and his ears.

He summoned his lance, scraping the tip of it against the frostbitten door until he felt it slide into the join where the door fit into the wall, and then he pushed. There was a thump and a jolt as the lock gave, and the door whined open on its hinges.

“Nice work,” Aranea said.

Ignis let his lance disappear back into the aether. “It's a bit of a trek from here,” he said, “but if we follow the pipes, the route is fairly straightforward.”

“I'll take the lead then,” Aranea said, and Ignis felt her brush past his shoulder as she walked into the maintenance tunnel. Ignis retrieved his stick, and then followed her.

The maintenance shafts of his memory had always been a little clinical, a little dry. They existed to allow workers to tend to things such as the Citadel's power and water supplies without having to do anything so crass as disturb the running of the Citadel. They had also provided a young prince that was able to crawl through vents with a way out of the Citadel's confines, at least until he'd become too big to fit, and had needed to be pulled back into the shaft by his legs after getting stuck.

The journey seemed to take longer than he remembered, the dull echo of their shoes on the concrete floor was the only sound in the city. One part of the tunnel stretched beneath the pavement, he remembered, where the smells of cars used to drift down, along with the echo of voices and thunder of feet across the grating. Now it was all dead silence, not even the air changed.

“There are stairs,” Aranea said, breaking the tense atmosphere.

It was like flicking the lights on in a darkened room. Suddenly Ignis knew where they were again. He gave a nod as the memory returned. “Up we go,” he said. “It should bring us out beside the gardens. We may need to break a window, if none are open.”

They did not, as it turned out, need to break a window. Aranea guided him to his hands and knees and through the open pane, and then handed his stick back to him as he returned to his feet on the other side. The sound of running water told him the fountain was still on, after all this time, churning away, though it sounded slower than he remembered.

Aranea gave a low whistle that bounced off distant walls. The gardens smelled no more alive than the park had, but the constant trickle of water shattered the silence. Ignis wondered how long ago the plants here had died. Was it due to neglect, when the city had been abandoned, or had they grown wild and then died more recently, when the sun had vanished from the skies? “Nice place,” Aranea said.

“The royal residences,” Ignis answered softly. “Closed to the public,” he added.

“Figures,” Aranea replied. “So where now?”

Ignis took a moment, casting his sightless gaze over the royal garden of his memory. “The hall of histories was publicly accessible,” he said, mostly to himself. “What we're looking for wasn't. If we make our way to the council chambers, the private archives will be accessible from there.”

It was a left turn out of the gardens, and down the corridor. Aranea's heeled boots clicked on the marble floor, accompanied by the rhythmic tap of Ignis's cane tip. The path was clear. Ignis had expected rubble, or worse, but instead the corridors were as clear as the last day he'd walked down them. “You said the Citadel was damaged?” he asked.

“Higher up,” Aranea said. “In the centre. They ignored the rest.”

Ignis murmured unhappily. “The Crystal, and the throne room,” he said, feeling a pang of hurt to think of the place desecrated so. “They knew what they were going for.”

“The empire had a lot of intel,” Aranea said quietly. “I'm sorry.”

Ignis frowned, turning his head towards her. “Were you here?” he asked. Aranea had worked with Niflheim, of course. The fact that she might have had a hand in Insomnia's destruction hadn't occurred to him until now.

“No,” she answered. Ignis felt a weight lift from his chest that he hadn't been aware of. “They had me and my men in Tenebrae, holding the fort while everyone else played at treaty signing.”

Ignis gave a single nod. Ravus had been in Insomnia, of course, as had the Emperor and, doubtless, the Chancellor, who had met them in Galdin Quay. They couldn't very well move all of their military might to Insomnia for the duration, in case another of the suppressed populations under their rule decided to seize the opportunity. “Then don't apologise,” he said.

The council chambers were in the depths of the Citadel, not public, but also not buried in the royal residence. Ignis had been able to make the journey to them with his nose buried in a book when he was younger, so making his way there now, as a blind man, wasn't difficult. A left turn, up a flight of stairs, follow the banister round and up again, and then--

“Ignis.”

He froze at the sound of his name. Aranea's voice was hushed, and urgent. “What is it?”

The moment it took Aranea to answer felt like an age. “There was fighting here,” she said.

Ignis's throat clamped up. The treaty had been set to to be signed in the council chambers; it had all broken down in there. _Erupted into violence_ , the reports had said. What had Aranea seen? What mark of a fight might still be present after this long? “Who is it?” he asked softly.

There was the sound of Aranea's outfit creaking and shifting as she crouched, and then material shifting as she moved clothing. “I don't know,” she said finally. “I can't see anything identifying.”

No crown, at least, meant that it wasn't His Majesty. The realisation that all who had died here in the initial skirmish had never received a respectful burial settled over him, heavy and unpleasant. They knew so few details of what had actually happened, how it had all gone so wrong for Insomnia. The possibility that they might run across his Majesty's body hadn't occurred to Ignis until now.

His Majesty wasn't the only one they might find.

They entered the council chambers warily. Death no longer smelled, after a few months. Once the bacteria had done what it could a body tended to dessicate; the flesh had been stripped, leaving nothing but bones to dry out. Still, Ignis fancied that the smell lingered. Hanging in the unmoving air was that slightly muddy, spoiled scent he associated with death.

Aranea's hand curled around his bicep, and he stilled, waiting for her to tell him what she'd seen. “Your council wore black robes, right?”

“Yes,” he confirmed.

Aranea's hand moved, but Ignis didn't. “There's one with a sword that looks like Gladio's,” she said. It sounded, to Ignis, as if there was more to the statement, but no more came.

He gave a soft sigh, his heart sinking low in his stomach. “In black and gold robes?” he asked. “Most likely his father.” Clarus Amicitia, sworn Shield to King Regis. Somehow the knowledge that his body had lain here these past years, untouched and disrespected, made Ignis's stomach roil. Gladio's father had always put duty first, and the last time Ignis had seen the man he'd been arguing with Gladio about their relationship.

He was Gladio's hero, he always had been, and the argument had torn Gladio's heart in two. They'd reconciled before departing, sharing a family meal, but it had been done on the understanding that the subject of Ignis wouldn't come up. It was a disagreement that had been cut short by death, not because it had been seen through to the end.

A part of Ignis ached knowing that he'd never be able to win Clarus's approval of their affections. He'd never disapproved of Ignis personally, as far as Ignis had been able to discern, only of the potential risk their relationship held to Gladio's status, and dedication to his duty. The matter of progeny had been a factor at the fore of Clarus's concerns; there had to be an Amicitia child to shield the next Lucis Caelum child.

If Clarus had known the fate that lay ahead of Noct, would he have supported his son's happiness instead?

Ignis would never know. Nor would Gladio.

“It must have been a hell of a fight here,” Aranea said, cutting into Ignis's thoughts once more.

Ignis breathed. His throat was dry and his eyes itched. “Could we,” he asked, his voice sounding strained to his own ears, “cover him? He deserves a modicum of dignity.”

Aranea's hesitant breath sent a chill down his spine. “What is it?” he asked.

“I don't think he died with dignity,” she said, as gently as she could. Ignis waited for her to elaborate, unsure if he wished her to or not. When she continued, “He's twenty feet up a wall, Ignis, with his own sword in his back,” he wished she hadn't.

“Never tell Gladio,” he said, quietly. There were some things Gladio, and Iris, never needed to know. “Please? Let's get him down.”

The next few minutes passed without conversation as Aranea jumped to where Gladio's father's remains were pinned to the wall like a gruesome butterfly. The sword took some effort to remove, and there was the dry clatter of bones falling to the floor as they fell free of the robes. Ignis bowed his head, and tried not to think about it.

He listened to the soft click and tap as Aranea repositioned the bones on the floor, and then the flutter of cloth as she lay the council cloak over what was left of the last Shield to serve a King. Ignis approached slowly, his footsteps soft against the marble floor of the chamber, broken glass cracking under his feet. There was no sign of His Majesty here, or Aranea would have mentioned it, which meant that Gladio's father had died first, as Ignis and Gladio had always known he would.

He stopped when he heard Aranea stand once more. It wasn't the funeral Clarus deserved, it wasn't the farewell Iris and Gladio would have given to their father, but it was the best Ignis and Aranea could do.

“You gonna say something?” Aranea asked. Ignis could feel her attention on him.

“There's nothing I could say,” Ignis said quietly. “He died a Shield, a fate handed down from his father, and every Amicitia heir before him.” Ignis paused, inhaling. “He died as he knew his son may have to, one day.” As Gladio's mother had likely known her husband _and_ son might have to. “He did his duty, as Gladio is doing his. They've never needed more than acknowledgement of that.”

It wasn't easy to love an Amicitia. You lived each day knowing that their life could be forfeit for another, that they'd never truly be free to give themselves to you because duty always beckoned. In quiet moments, Gladio would say things that made Ignis think he wouldn't have chosen his duty, that he accepted it because it was thrust upon him. He envied the freedom of the hunters too much.

Had Clarus ever felt that way? As Insomnia had fallen into violence around him, had he wished he could have been there to protect his family instead? His Majesty and Clarus had been close, as close as brothers, as close as Gladio and Noct, or perhaps closer still. Gladio fought for love, and friendship, and loyalty. Had Clarus fought this last battle for the same?

“There's a door at the back left,” he said, turning away. “The archives are that way.”

They left Clarus's body behind, with a little more dignity than it had before. Aranea's feet fell sure and steady, the click of her heels echoing off the walls of the corridors so that Ignis could hear how close he was to them. The sound changed when they entered a wider part of the corridor signifying doorways, but Ignis directed her on ahead.

Ignis heard the door swing open, and Aranea's footsteps became lost in the vast expanse of the records room. “We don't have to search all this, do we?” she asked.

Ignis shook his head. He remembered the archives; they were part library, part museum. The more modern, and thus more frequently accessed tomes lay to the front. He'd spent many an afternoon as a teenager delving further in, where books became scrolls, and the language became old fashioned and spelling varied by author. The scrolls were kept in good condition, but you couldn't touch them with bare hands as the oils on skin would degrade the paper, and sunlight would wear away the inks. “What we're searching for,” he said, “will be hidden somewhere dark, where it can't be touched or accidentally damaged. The painting on the walls outside the throne room was transferred there when that part of the Citadel was built. Before that, it covered a single wall in the royal palace. It's approximately half a millennia old. What we're looking for will be that age or older.”

He counted the rows of shelves as he made his way towards the back of the room. The ceiling here was high, and the sound of his cane tapping the floor came back to him with a notable delay. “What is all this?” Aranea asked, lingering two cases behind him.

“Records of every birth, death, marriage, land purchase, public appointment, and council meeting in the city,” Ignis answered. “The important information gets consolidated after ten years. Thank the goddess for digital records,” he muttered.

Still, the place smelled comfortingly familiar. The scent of dry paper and leather bindings hung in the air, undisturbed by air currents until he and Aranea passed through. It was exactly how Ignis remembered it, from the quiet hush of the room, and the way it swallowed sound and then spat it back at you, tricking you into being quieter than you had ever been as every sound became amplified on its return, to the smell of the paper, and parchment.

Ignis led Aranea more than halfway through the room. The archives back here were older, less concerned with the minutiae of daily city life. The royal histories were here. There were probably details of every royal tomb there had ever been, every weapon a Lucis Caelum had ever borne in here. Ignis dimly regretted that he'd never taken the time to read them before journeying with Noct, but then, he'd never expected their journey to turn out the way it had.

“Start here,” Ignis said. “The royal histories used to be transcribed afresh every few decades; paper just doesn't last. These are some of the oldest still extant.”

“So I'm looking for the prophecy,” Aranea said. Ignis heard her pick up a scroll and unfurl it.

“The prophecy itself, or references to it, yes,” Ignis confirmed. “So long as it's more than what is printed in the Cosmogony.”

“Right,” Aranea replied. Ignis heard her roll the first scroll up, and then put it down by her feet. “Really wishing you weren't blind about now,” she added, picking up the next scroll.

Ignis could only offer a wan smile. Fortunately, the first few paragraphs of each scroll tended to reveal the nature of its contents. They found several that detailed the births, lives, and deaths of particular monarchs in the Lucis Caelum line. They died horribly young, much of the time, after abbreviated reigns in which there was little opportunity to achieve much. Noctis was the hundred and fourteenth of the line, which didn't sound like a lot over two thousand years of history, and yet a good rule for a Lucis Caelum monarch barely lasted twenty years. Most of them were much shorter. The ring took a terrible toll, exchanging a king's life for the protection of his people.

Ignis had seen it happening to King Regis. Noct had seen it too, and they'd both known that Noct would be next to sacrifice his life to protecting the Crystal and keeping the daemons at bay.

How little they had truly known.

The hours seemed to tick by, and the pile of scrolls discarded on the floor grew around them before Aranea stopped. “This is interesting,” she said.

“The prophecy?” Ignis asked.

“Ardyn,” she answered. Ignis heard her unrolling the scroll further. “It mentions the start of the scourge.”

“Keep it,” Ignis said, his fingers tightening on his cane. “Search the others in that area.”

Aranea pushed the scroll into his hand, and Ignis curled his fingers around it carefully. Ardyn _was_ the scourge, and if this scroll contained information as to how it began, it might help Ignis work out a way to end it, too.

“Here we go,” Aranea said, after pushing another two scrolls into Ignis's arms for him to slip into the leather satchel, and unfurling a third. “O'er rotted soil under blighted sky, blah blah.” She paused, and Ignis heard her unroll the scroll further. “Born to blood loyal, great is his strength...” She trailed off again, and there was the sound of paper scraping as she unrolled it still further. “Blinded, the visionary,” she muttered, as if she was listing artefacts. “Birthed by unnatural means,” she read, “this is you boys.”

Ignis's heart pounded in his throat. It wracked his body, and he reminded himself to breathe. “What else does it say?” he asked.

He listened, imagining he could hear Aranea scanning over the ink. “Only at the throne can the Chosen receive it,” she read, “and only at the cost of a life,” she continued, and then stopped. “Wait.”

“Never mind,” Ignis said, his heart freezing in his chest. “It's what we came for. We can go over it later.”

He listened to the silence, aware that Aranea was looking at him before she began wordlessly scrolling the parchment back up, the dry material scratching and scraping with the rough handling. “Don't you want to look for more?” she asked.

Ignis shook his head. “It sounds like everything I need is in there,” he answered. “Let's head back to Lestallum so we can go over them properly.”

“Leaving so soon?” a voice called, jovial and yet menacing.

Ignis felt recognition run down his spine and through his limbs like a wave of cold water. “ _Ardyn._ ”


	3. Retreat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ardyn appears, and Ignis and Aranea are forced to flee.

“You stroll into my city and expect me not to notice?” Ardyn asked. Ignis could hear the subtle menace in his tone. Ardyn acted as if everything amused him. It was all a game to him and he had the lowest stake and the highest payout, but Ignis had also seen him get serious. The memory of Ardyn's voice so close to his ear, and his breath against Ignis's cheek on the altar in Altissia returned, settling like a lump of ice in his chest. “What sort of host would I be if I didn't greet such honoured guests?”

Ignis felt something tap against his hand, beckoning him to take it, and he closed his fingers around the last scroll. Beside him there was the faint whoosh of Aranea brandishing her lance. Her heels turned against the floor as she adjusted her stance.

“I have no interest in fighting _you_ ,” Ardyn said, in response.

“Are you going to let us leave?” Aranea asked. One of her heels tapped lightly on the floor as she shifted.

“Oh, _I'm_ not going to stand in your way,” Ardyn replied. Ignis heard the emphasis in the sentence and his skin prickled in response. “But I can't say the same for the daemons.”

Ignis clutched the scroll tighter against his chest. In here lay his chance to find a way to defy the machinations of the Astrals and fate. He had to get the information safely out of the city.

“What are you?” Aranea asked. Her teeth were audible in the question, the sound changed as she flashed them at Ardyn.

“You haven't found that out yet?” Ardyn asked, like a disappointed teacher quizzing a student about their unfinished homework.

“You're the scourge,” Ignis said, softly. “You're the darkness Noct will banish.”

Ardyn's tone shifted again, back to amusement as he said, “I can't wait until you find out how he does it.”

Dread coursed its way down Ignis's spine. “You know?” Ignis asked. He knew what he'd seen in his head that rainy day in Altissia, planted there by a messenger as warning. But that was but one possibility. Fate was never so certain. One's choices could alter the path of the future. He had to believe that, or what was the point?

Prophesies telling of his own blindness be damned. Noct did _not_ have to suffer what the fates foretold.

“Of course,” Ardyn answered, and Ignis heard him pouting as he said, “it's such a shame someone already spoiled the surprise.”

“There's another way,” Ignis said, despite the swirling doubt and fear in his own gut that he might not find it. There would be another way, there had to be or why show him that vision? 

“It takes the King, the ring, the crystal, and the combined power of the Astrals to banish the darkness,” Ardyn said. Ignis heard his clothes rustle and sweep as he moved, he was twelve feet away, from the sound. Ignis could close that distance quickly, but Ardyn could close it quicker. “You made a sacrifice for the strength to fight me,” he added, “how much do you think dear Noctis will have to sacrifice to defeat me?”

“Noct won't be alone,” Ignis replied.

“Are you quite sure of that?” Ardyn asked. There was the sound of a boot on the marble tile, drawing closer, which was matched by another heeled boot shifting next to Ignis. “Nothing opens a person up to daemonification quite like taking away their hope, and how much do you really have left? You've lost your prince, your friends, your family, your home,” Ardyn paused, “your lover,” he added.

Ignis's blood ran cold. “I have faith in Noct,” he said.

“And yet you're trying to defy his fate,” Ardyn said. Ignis heard the shift of Ardyn's clothing as he moved again, advancing by tiny degrees. Aranea's leather outfit creaked warily. “The only way to save him is to damn the world, and everyone else in it. Would you do that?”

Ignis's throat tightened. Instinct screamed at him to take a step back, to move away from the conversation. He could feel Aranea's eyes on him.

“I could kill them now if it would make the choice easier,” Ardyn offered, his voice oily. He was enjoying himself, Ignis realised. “The broken MT in Hammerhead, the spurned lover in the Three Valleys, the little sister in Lestallum practising her sword skills when she thinks no one's looking,” he said, “I could send terrible daemons after them all now.”

“If you hurt any of them--” Ignis began, fear seething up to become anger at the threats.

Ardyn laughed, “It's so easy when it's your own life you're taking into your hands, isn't it?” The metallic tearing and creak of a daemon erupting echoed through the doorway behind Ardyn, distorted but horribly recognisable. “But how can you protect them when you're all the way out here?”

Ignis's stomach turned to lead, and he summoned a dagger into one hand. There were other noises emanating from the doorway. Ignis turned his head, tuning out the sound and the sense of Bombs emerging in the corridor as something gave a quiet puff nearby, almost drowned out by the rest.

“Watch out!” He struck out with his dagger, keeping the scroll tucked close to his chest. The goblin's claws snagged at his sleeve but the dagger found twisted flesh and bit in. Aranea's lance breezed by and swung around him and cutting a swathe through the air. There was the sound of bones crunching, and the indignant shriek of goblins being flung back. Ignis heard them hit the floor and bookcases, and then the skitter of claws over tile as they righted themselves and came back to attack again.

Ignis held his dagger ready, up, with the blade pointing down, defending his face as he listened and waited. Claws clicked on the floor, Ignis honed in on the sound and struck. The goblin screeched as Ignis slashed at it, catching its midsection.

A hand grabbed the leather strap of the satchel he'd stored the other scrolls in and yanked. Ignis was dragged forward. He stumbled a couple of steps, and then followed as Aranea pulled him towards the doorway. “Let's not die here,” she said.

He felt Ardyn's presence as he was pulled past him. The man's chuckle was soft and genuine, faint against the backdrop of daemonic noises. Somehow it seemed that Ardyn was standing back and enjoying the display. He wouldn't fight them, that would be unfair, but sending daemons after them was practically sport.

The goblins chased them as they left the archives and Ignis felt the cold crisp air that indicated cryonades in the corridor. Aranea's grip disappeared, leaving Ignis to stumble a couple of steps forward on his own as the momentum faded. Her footsteps rang out as she ran forward without him, and there was a crunch and blast of cold air as she jumped at one of the bombs.

It wasn't alone. Ignis turned, flinging a dagger at the sound of sharp claws coming up behind them both. They were hemmed in. The corridors didn't have enough space for an all out fight, and he could feel another three cryonades approaching behind Aranea's current target.

He turned back towards Aranea, summoning his lance and throwing it one-handed. Hitting a daemon in this space wouldn't be impressive, although failing to hit Aranea would be. He could only trust in her reflexes, and his own hearing. She was slightly to his right, so he kept his aim straight. He heard the lance make impact, and immediately drew back, summoning it again to throw once more.

Aranea's grunts of effort added to the growing cacophony, but sound was good, it let Ignis pinpoint where things were. He could almost see the corridor in the sounds, the shape, and length, and height of it brought to life as the noises channelled down it. The bombs chattered, as did the goblins, Aranea's heels clicked, her lance hammered. Her grunts of effort were matched by Ignis's as he heaved his lance again.

“There are too many,” Ignis said. Even if they managed to defeat them all, there would be more along the way. Ardyn was trying to hem them in and pin them down. The corridor was too confined a space to use magic, and he couldn't risk losing the scrolls to a fire spell.

Of course that was why it had to be cryonades, he thought, bitterly. To provide that fair chance for Ignis to get the information he sought.

The one Aranea was facing was to his right. Another was coming up behind it, head on to Ignis. “We'll have to run.”

He moved. The sound of Aranea striking at the cryonade with her lance was deafening down his ear as he passed. Aranea's heeled boots followed in his wake. He darted sideways, bouncing off the wall with his shoulder as he skirted around the second cryonade, his attention already on the third and fourth. He felt the magical charge building in the air. The temperature dropped, and there was a faint tinkling noise of ice crystals forming just before the magic hit its peak.

He shoe skidded on the marble as he threw himself down, the scroll cradled protectively to his chest as he slid along the floor. The cryonade passed overhead, and Ignis scrambled back to his feet, getting up just as the glacial boom of magic erupted. His back froze, cold crawled up his legs and bit at his skin with frosty teeth. The force of the blast and the explosion of ice knocked him forward.

Aranea rolled on the floor beside him, her lance clattering against the tile. They both hurried to regain their feet. “Which way?” she asked. There was a metallic scrape as she retrieved her lance. The cryonades were already turning; Ignis could hear their dull chatter becoming louder as they did.

“Right,” he said, moving that way already. Aranea followed, keeping up the rear as they were pursued. How far? This corridor was fifty feet long, but there was a door on the corner of the first turning, around twelve feet down. Six steps at a run. “This way,” he said, turning left abruptly, and rounding the corner to barge his shoulder into the doors he remembered.

They swung open with little resistance. The yawning, dusty smelling chasm of an unused stairwell beckoned beyond. Aranea followed, slamming the door shut behind them both. There was the dull metallic thud of a bolt sliding home. “Where now?” she asked, taking the brief respite to gain her breath.

Ignis took a grateful gasp of air as he brought his memory of the Citadel back. “Down,” he said, “and out through the main doors. It's the only way we'll have space to evade, or fight.” They could go further down than that, but it brought them to more enclosed corridors, and lower ceilinged spaces that weren't ideal for Aranea's fighting style.

Still, the main doors involved wider spaces, and bigger daemons. He could tell from Aranea's huffed breath that she didn't like the idea any more than he did. “I don't like being herded towards something,” she said.

“I'd rather be herded towards an open space than more narrow corridors,” Ignis replied, adjusting his grip on the scroll. He found the opening to the satchel and stashed it inside, carefully closing the flap over them. The bag bulged, and knocked against his hip. He wouldn't be able to do any fancy gymnastics to evade, or strike, carrying this.

Aranea grunted, and Ignis heard her make herself stand straight. “So we run instead of fighting.”

“Capital idea,” Ignis agreed.

Once he had the spacing for the steps, running down the stairs was easy. It was a simple matter of placing one foot in front of the other, and down enough to hit the next step. There were fourteen steps down, and then Ignis followed the handrail round, three steps at the inside track, to another fourteen steps.

Above them they heard the chatter and click of goblins entering the stairwell. They moved faster. “First floor,” Aranea said, as they rounded the steps again.

“Once we reach the ground floor it's out, and left,” Ignis said, his voice becoming soft so as not to attract more daemonic attention. He could hear something waiting for them; Insomnia had come alive with the sounds of daemons. Something hissed and slithered inside the Citadel, and as they opened the stairwell door he could hear the scrape of giantskin as one paced outside.

There were footsteps in the concourse, and the shuffle of material. Their feet were slow, their movements measured, and Ignis's hair prickled all the way down his spine. “Careful,” he said, as softly as he dared.

“Yojimbo,” Aranea murmured, confirming Ignis's suspicions. The sound of them frightened Ignis more than any other because they sounded so much more human than any other. They didn't chatter like goblins, and their skin didn't groan unnaturally like the giants. They didn't sound wet and oily when they moved, like the flayers. They just walked, in steady, even steps, like a human guard patrolling their patch.

It was an uncomfortable reminder of what they had once been, and a warning of how they would act.

“We only need to get past it,” Ignis said, adjusting the bag at his hip. “Where is it?”

“Right between us and the exit,” Aranea replied, unhappily. “Stay behind me. I'll stun it in the first attack, you get past, and I'll follow.”

The plan, such as it was, nipped at Ignis's pride, but he swallowed it. Aranea would likely be instructing him to run even if he could see, and as much as it rankled to let someone else hare off into danger for his sake, Ignis was the one carrying the scrolls. Not that he'd get very far if Aranea got hurt, since he couldn't very well fly the dropship back himself. “Very well,” he said.

“On my signal.”

Ignis waited, listening to the sounds of daemons prowling the floor above. Something else had got into the stairwell, but it was directionless in its search for them. Bigger, nastier things awaited them outside, but at least out there they had the space to run, and keep running.

Aranea's foot shifted on the marble floor with a scrape, and then he heard her take off into a run. Her foot stamped hard on the floor before the noise of her footsteps stopped entirely, replaced by the grunt of effort as she jumped. He held his breath, hearing the daemon turn towards her, the swish of its robes as it found her and moved to attack too late.

There was a clang, and a heavy thud as Aranea drove her lance down in her attack. The Yojimbo was knocked backwards; Ignis heard it stumble. “Go!” she cried.

Ignis moved, his soles slipping slightly on the polished floor, and then gaining traction as he dashed forward. There were barriers in the main concourse, designed to herd lines of sightseers into manageable groups. The only straight path was down the centre. He kept to it, knowing it would take him close to Aranea, and the daemon.

He heard a sword slice through air, and make contact with metal as Aranea defended. There was a soft clap of something on flesh as Aranea struck somewhere else, and the metal scraped as the daemon pulled back.

The sound passed by on his right, and he heard Aranea moving in to attack again. The noise came a moment too late to warn him; there was a scraping sound, like multiple small things being thrown, and something hit Ignis hard in the legs and back, sending him stumbling. He caught himself with one hand on the floor, hearing Aranea's feet shift as she attacked again.

The air shivered, and then there was a thump, and a scream from Aranea. “Aranea!” Leather and metal crumpled to the floor, and Ignis heard Aranea gasped in pain, but at least she was alive. He pushed himself back to his feet. The daemon was turning its attention towards him, drawing closer.

His lance materialised in his hand, a heavy, reassuring weight as he drew back, listening for the daemon's foot landing on the floor. He used the soft sound as a signal and threw hard. The bag of scrolls swung dangerously as he moved, letting the polearm fly. It made contact with a meaty thud, and the daemon staggered backwards.

Ignis peeled the satchel strap off, letting the bag slip to the floor, and safety. He didn't want to risk damaging or spilling anything as he fought, and he had to give Aranea a chance to get up. He called his lance again, let it fly again at that same spot, heard the daemon stagger backwards with the impact, recalled it. Every hit sent the daemon reeling slowly backwards, away from Aranea. He listened, using the sound of each step to recalculate his aim and keep it true. The other sounds in the room fell away as he focused on his task.

The air shivered again, and Ignis's lance didn't land when it should have. Ignis called both of his daggers and held them up, waiting. He'd seen this attack before; he'd have to react quickly. There was another shiver behind him, the air rippling over his skin, and he turned to face it, daggers up in defence.

He felt the sword coming down towards his head, pushing the air ahead of it. It caught on his daggers, held against his defence so close that he could smell the acrid tang of daemonic corruption on the blade. The daemon pushed, and Ignis pushed back. Behind him, Ignis heard the crack of a potion vial.

He gave a heave, surging forward to push the daemon back. The sword drew away from his daggers and Ignis switched to his lance again, driving it forward while the daemon was vulnerable. He felt the lance's point bite into the daemon's body, sinking into the twisted flesh. The daemon staggered to the floor. He pulled back, and struck again, stabbing forward, and then drew back and swung at it hard.

Applause filled the concourse, and the cold fingers of horror trailed down each of Ignis's limbs. “Very good,” came Ardyn's voice. Ignis heard him bend, his multiple layers of clothing shifting, sounding like a heavier version of the Yojimbo as he moved. Material shifted, and something light and papery with a wooden core tumbled to the floor and rolled. “But it seems you dropped something.”

Ignis's heart froze in his chest, refusing to beat. He felt the magic in the room, felt the heat of it before the spell had landed.

He dashed forward, into the explosion and rush of flames and the smell of scorching material. He continued on anyway. Noct had been careless with his magic when he'd first started using it, and Ignis and the others had oft been caught in the crossfire. This was no different. His clothes singed, his skin scorched, his lungs burned as he breathed the heated air. It hurt like wearing the ring again. He felt like he was burning inside and out. He scrambled for the scrolls. Ardyn had tipped them out of the bag, and Ignis swept his hand through embers.

He found one, too hot to hold, but he picked it up regardless. Ardyn's laughter filled the room. Ignis didn't hear the kick that came in from behind, the noise of the fire was too great. A large booted foot went between his shoulders and pushed, sending him sprawling into the fire.

“Get up!” Aranea's voice cut through a haze Ignis was only dimly aware of. An irresistible force pulled at his jacket, dragging him sideways. He staggered to his feet as he was pulled round, clear of the spell's effect, and then cold, clean air hit his nose and lungs, and he coughed.

Aranea's grip on his jacket didn't abate. She dragged Ignis, pulled him stumbling down the Citadel steps. Ignis could hear more fire out here, in the swish and brush of flaming swords, accompanied by the groaning metal skin of Red Giants, two of them.

A flaming sword roared overhead as Ignis followed Aranea across the courtyard, and then out through the gates. He wanted to stop, wanted to breathe, and take a potion, but more daemons were approaching. A naga's scales slithered over the road surface, and something hissed and pranced nearby, sniffing the air for them.

“This way,” Ignis said, pushing on. The roads were filled with rubble, and they climbed piles that had once been buildings as they raced back to the park, slipping past daemons as they did. Their slithers and screeches, pounding footsteps and roars filled the air behind them, giving chase as Ignis and Aranea ran despite their burning lungs.

“Fence,” Aranea warned, and Ignis heard her hop over it. He followed suit. His stick had been left behind with the records. The realisation hit like a rock falling into his stomach. He'd have no way of retrieving it now, and he couldn't very well explain where it had gone, either. He listened to Aranea's footsteps, using the sound of her movements to judge the distance for himself and clear the fence.

His feet landed unsteadily in dirt, instead of on tarmac, or paving. They were at the park. They just needed to reach the ship. Ignis's lungs felt scorched, along with his skin, but he clutched the scroll he'd managed to salvage from the flames tightly. All the scrolls they'd taken were valuable; the loss of any of them was a blow, but at least they wouldn't be returning empty handed. There was something here they could use. There was something here that Ardyn didn't want them to have.

He could hear daemons still giving chase. The lumbering bodies of giants followed, slow, and heavy as they ran through the park. Aranea's feet hit metal, the welcome sound of the dropship coming under her feet. The floor became hard and hollow beneath Ignis's own feet as he followed her.

The doors closed with a mechanical whine, and Ignis stopped running at last. He dropped gratefully to his hands and knees. Each gasped breath was agony. The floor trembled and echoed with Aranea's footsteps as she made her way to the pilot's seat, and the ship began to vibrate as the engine fired up.

Ignis drew out a potion. Everything hurt now that he'd stopped. His limbs felt like jelly, and his throat felt as scorched as his skin. If Aranea hadn't grabbed him when she had, he'd have likely passed out in the flames. The crack of the glass vial seemed to be the loudest sound in the ship, and soothing magic washed over and through him. The relief was instant.

He still smelled of scorched leather and burnt hair, but only a shower and change of clothes would fix that.

The airship lifted as he got to his feet. The effect was like being in an elevator, inertia pushed his weight down, and then he adjusted to the movement. He made his way forward, to the front of the ship, sinking into the chair beside Aranea. “Are you all right?” he asked.

Aranea took a moment to answer, and when she did it was through gritted teeth. “Still got some pain,” she said. “That bastard caught me a good blow.”

Ignis frowned, and retrieved another potion. “Here,” he said, holding it out towards Aranea and cracking it for her. He heard her gasped intake of breath, and then her soft sigh.

“Thanks,” she said. Silence descended as they pulled away, leaving Insomnia behind. They wouldn't be able to return, Ignis knew, not until Noct was with them. Ardyn had _allowed_ them in, but Ignis didn't expect that invitation would be extended again. “I'm sorry we didn't get more information,” Aranea said, quietly.

Ignis frowned, his fingers tightening around the scroll in his hands. “I'm sorry for bringing you out here,” he said. “I should have known Ardyn would be waiting.”

Aranea didn't reply. The silence settled around them again like a blanket, and Ignis stroked over the damaged scroll with his thumb, feeling where the parchment had become dry and brittle, and where it had scorched through. “What that prophecy said,” Aranea began, tentatively, “about your prince. Is it true?”

Ignis found his chest locking up. His mouth was suddenly dry, and he wet it with a swallow. “That he's supposed to exchange his life for the power to end the blight?” he asked. He fought to keep his voice from cracking.

“It didn't look like the first time you'd heard it,” Aranea said, quietly.

“I'm trying to find another way,” he admitted.

“Do the others know?” Aranea asked.

“No,” Ignis answered, quickly. “They can't. You heard what Ardyn said; losing hope is the surest way to open oneself to the blight. If they thought that after all this--” The rest of the sentence wouldn't come. Ignis couldn't bring himself to say it.

“So you've been carrying it alone,” Aranea said. It wasn't a question, but Ignis nodded anyway. “How did you find out?”

Ignis bit his lip. Did he dare tell Aranea? He'd never admitted it to anyone, not even Gladio. Noct had _wanted_ to push on, but every step of the journey had hurt him. If Gladio had known what fate lay ahead of Noct, would he have been able to take him to it? It hadn't seemed real anyway, and Ignis had almost convinced himself it wasn't. But then Noct had been swallowed by the crystal, and Ignis had realised what he had to do. “A dog told me,” he said, with a wan smile. “But just because something is prophesied doesn't mean it has to come true.”

The silence dragged on, and Ignis listened to his own heart thudding in his chest. “I wouldn't trust the word of a dog,” Aranea said, eventually.

Ignis smiled weakly, and bowed his head. “Quite so,” he agreed.

His phone gave a beep as they flew. He pulled it from his pocket, tapping the screen with his thumb. “You have one missed call from _Gladio_ ,” the electronic voice said. Ardyn's words in the archives rang in Ignis's ears. Ardyn believed he and Gladio were separated, but that hadn't dampened his willingness to threaten his safety, or Prompto's.

“Call Gladio,” he instructed, his fingers tight around the phone.

It rang seven times before the call picked up. “Iggy?”

Relief rushed through Ignis's chest at the sound of his voice. “Gladio,” he said, knowing the relief would be obvious in his tone and caring little that Aranea could overhear it. “Where are you, is everything all right?”

“I should be asking you the same,” Gladio replied. “No one knew where you were.”

Of course, Ignis realised. The last thing Gladio received from him was that voice message. “I'm fine,” he said, “I'm with Aranea.”

Ignis heard Gladio's sigh on the other end of the call. “So long as you're okay.”

Ignis smiled into the call. Gladio's voice was precisely what he needed to hear. “Where are you?” he asked again.

“Pallebram haven,” Gladio answered. “We're getting ready to attack this nest from all sides. Prompto's at Criclawe.”

Ignis didn't hesitate. “Then I'm on my way,” he said, “assuming you still need more hands?”

“Yeah, we do,” Gladio replied. “We could really use you.”

The call went quiet. Ignis didn't want to end it, and it seemed Gladio shared the sentiment, even though there was nothing to say, or nothing they could say, given their audience. Eventually Gladio said, “Iggy?”

“Yes?”

“I got your message,” Gladio said.

Ignis smiled, wishing he could reach through the phone and bring Gladio into his arms. “Every word is true,” he said.

“I know,” Gladio said. “I've always known.”

Ignis felt his throat close up. “I'll be there soon,” he said.

“So,” Aranea said, once Ignis had hung up the call and replaced his phone in his pocket. “You and Gladio?”

A knot formed in Ignis's chest. He wanted to tell Aranea, to tell _someone_ , but he daren't. He'd already told her more than he knew he should with the truth of the prophecy about Noct. He couldn't burden her with more. “We didn't split because we don't care,” Ignis said quietly. “We just can't do it anymore.”

Aranea inhaled slowly through her nose. Ignis got the impression she was gathering her thoughts. “It's not easy,” she quietly agreed, “loving someone on the battlefield.” Ignis bit the inside of his lip, and wondered who Aranea had loved. “Especially when you have to work together.”

“No,” Ignis conceded, “it's not.”

“Seeing someone you care about get hurt,” she said, “knowing they might die, it takes a toll. If you really want to move on,” she said, tentatively. Ignis got the distinct impression Aranea was deliberately leaving an opening for the answer to be that he didn't, “you should start seeing other people.”

Ignis swallowed and bowed his head. “I'll bear that in mind.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, kudosing, and commenting. They all mean so much to me. Now to make sure there isn't as long a wait for the next one!
> 
> Special thanks to Sauronix for helping me get this fic ready to go.

**Author's Note:**

> Special thanks go to Sauronix for helping me beat the half cocked ramblings of my distracted mind into something coherent and publishable.


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